


What I Forgot To Tell You

by azriona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Kink Meme, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:43:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3289100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On average, a person will have ten soulmates throughout their lifetime.  </p><p>But that’s the funny thing about averages.  There’s always those for whom they don’t apply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Forgot To Tell You

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [你不知道的是](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3348704) by [shanzhu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanzhu/pseuds/shanzhu)



> I wanted to write something quick and simple – mostly to prove that I could, I’ve had bad luck with trying to write short things lately. (Well, apart from December's Drabbles.) So I went trolling on the Kink Meme and found [a sweet little soulmate prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=131022713#t131022713). And wouldn’t you know, I kept it under 10K. Yay me!
> 
> Thanks to whoever left the prompt - I had a lovely time writing it. Thanks to ladyprydian and mildredandbobbin for the beta. They both made this much better. Ladyprydian might be forgiven for the Medieval Omegaverse. _Might._ It's debatable.
> 
> [Translation in русский (Russian) by the fabulous Ann available here.](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5277490/13594023#part_content)

The first night after Sherlock died, John went through the motions of going to bed.  He powered down his laptop, locked the door, and turned out the lights.  He brushed his teeth and used the toilet.

 

He removed his shirt, his belt, his trousers, his pants.  Stood naked in the cool air for a moment, let his skin breathe, waited for fingers that would never touch him again, before hastily pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms, without daring to look in the mirror.

 

His fingers went still on his wristwatch, and then John couldn’t move a muscle.

 

Once it was off… he’d know.  There’d be no getting around it.  When a person died, the soulname on their wrist would slowly fade away.  But that wasn’t the case with the name on the surviving soulmate’s wrist. 

 

Those names disappeared entirely, as if they’d never been.

 

John turned out the light, settled himself under the blankets in the too-big bed, and stared at the ceiling without falling asleep.

 

The wristwatch stayed on.

 

*

 

_You aren’t born with a soulname on your wrist.  After all, the only soulmate a baby needs is someone who loves them._

_It’s only when you’re older, when you’ve learned to walk and talk and have questioned the importance of sharing toys that a name will appear on your wrist.  Most children are two or three when they have their first soulname.  Usually it’s an age-mate, a child they already know from playgroup, a cousin with whom they’re especially close.  Sometimes it’s a sibling, or a beloved nanny or grandparent._

_The first soulname rarely stays visible for very long.  A year, perhaps two at the most.  It’s written down in the baby book, along with treasured photographs and fond remembrances.  Most people don’t even remember the person to whom they were so closely attached._

_On average, a person will have ten soulmates throughout their lifetime._

_But that’s the funny thing about averages.  There’s always those who don’t quite fit._

 

*

 

“He’ll be at school, won’t he, Mummy?” asked John, bouncing on his heels as his mother tried in vain to button his coat.  “He has to, he doesn’t live anywhere near, do you think he’ll be in my class?”

 

Anna Watson smiled and concentrated on the buttons.  “I’m sure he will be, dear.  You’ll just have to ask until you find him – won’t take long, I’m sure, not with a name like that.”

 

John lifted his arm and pushed back his sleeve to look at the name again.  His arm got in his mother’s way, but she smiled gamely and kept attempting to close the buttons. 

 

“ _S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K_ ,” John read aloud, and then went back to bouncing.  “That spells _Sherlock_.  And he’ll be my best friend forever.”

 

“Oh, John,” sighed Anna, finally managing to close the last button, and she rested her hand on her son’s shoulders, holding him still.  “That’s not how the names work, love.  Sherlock will be your best friend for now – and maybe he’ll even be a _forever_ friend – but he won’t be your best friend forever.”

 

John was too excited to hear.  “What should I call him, Mummy?  Is Sherlock his first or his last name?  Do you think he goes by Shirley or Sherl or should I just call him Sherlock to start—?”

 

Finally, his coat buttoned, his shoes tied, his cap on his head – John tugged on his mother’s arm, so that she was only able to pull her coat off the hook by sheer force of will before she was out the door. 

 

“Come _on_ , Mummy,” urged John, already halfway down the steps to the pavement outside.  “He’s going to be looking for me everywhere.  Let’s go find him first!”

 

Anna laughed, following John out the door.  “Slow down, John!  We’ll find him in time, don’t you worry.”

 

*

 

As far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned, the alphabet began with the letters J-O-H-N, before continuing to A-B-C. 

 

He traced them with his finger every night before he fell asleep, and again when he woke in the morning.  He recognized the individual letters when he saw them scattered across the books that Mummy read to him, and the signs on the roads when Father took him on his walks around the neighborhood.

 

But it was later, when he began to learn the rest of the alphabet, and how the individual letters formed larger and more varied words, that he realized what those four little letters represented.  _His_ John, yes – but also the search for him.  Because the world did not consist of just _his_ John.  There were dozens of Johns, scattered every which where, and he might spend his entire life looking for one with his name in a matching font and color.

 

“Four of them in my class alone,” said Mycroft, who was ten and knew a great many things.  “Exactly 57 in the school, including the instructors.  I could look up how many in town, if you’d like.  A thousand, I expect.”

 

“A _thousand_!” cried Sherlock, and then clamped his mouth shut again, because he was not going to cry.  He _wasn’t_.

 

“Enough, Mycroft,” said Mummy, firmly, and turned to Sherlock.

 

“How am I supposed to find my John if there’s a thousand of them?” Sherlock whispered, and Mummy squeezed his knee.

 

“It’s all right, darling,” said Mummy quietly.  “It doesn’t matter if there’s a thousand Johns, or a _hundred_ thousand Johns.  There will only be one with the name _Sherlock_ on his wrist, and that’s the one that will matter.  That’s the one who is right now looking for you.”

 

*

 

_Soulmates have different roles in life.  When you’re young, your soulmate is most likely to be a friend, a companion, someone to help you navigate the tricky path of growing up and figuring out your way in the world._

_Sometimes a soulmate is a mentor: they’re supposed to introduce you to something that will become vitally important to you later in life, such as a love of photography, or the pleasures of mathematics._

_It’s when you’re young that soulmates can change so rapidly – there’s been reported cases of a single person having up to three different soulmates within the course of a single day, though of course that’s not typical.  More likely your soulname will remain the same for a few months, or a few years.  When it does change, it’s a slow process – sometimes painful, sometimes gentle, but it’s always the best thing, in the end._

 

*

 

“He’s such a lovely boy,” his aunts always said.  “What a shame about his soulmate.”

 

John squirmed every time they started in on it.  He knew they’d talk about it – _all_ the adults wanted to talk about it – but he wished they’d have the decency to wait until he was out of the room first.

 

“These things happen,” Anna Watson would reply.  “Oh, dear, John, I think I heard the phone, could you go check?”

 

And then John would make his escape.  It was only after he’d turned the corner that he would rub his wrist, harder and harder, as if trying to smudge the name there.

 

 _W-I-L-L-I-A-M,_ it now read, the never-found Sherlock having long since been replaced.  There were three Williams in John’s school – but none of them were _his_. 

 

Not that he lacked for companions.  People didn’t just hang about with their soulmates, and not everyone’s soulmates attended the same school or were in the same classes.  And everyone _liked_ John – he told himself it wasn’t pity.

 

“Such a dependable, friendly boy,” his teachers all said, because John didn’t play favorites in the schoolyard, and always did his work neatly and on time.

 

“Don’t cross him,” the school bullies said to each other, because John was the first to leap to the defense of the little kids whose soulmates attended other schools, who were otherwise perfect prey.  John had a wicked left hook and wasn’t afraid to use it.

 

It didn’t matter, if he hadn’t found his soulmate yet.  He had lots of friends.  Scores of friends.  And they all liked him for who he was, not for the name inscribed on his wrist.

 

John was doing just fine without William at present.  All the same – it was nice to know that William was out there.  _Somewhere._  He’d find him eventually.  One day.

 

*

 

The tricky thing about school, Sherlock discovered, was that no one used first names.  The teachers all used last names for the students, so one had to ask in order to learn if a fellow’s name was the same as found on their wrist. 

 

Sherlock had long since learned it didn’t do any good to ask if someone’s name was _John_.  Often enough, it was.  By the time he was eight, he’d long since determined how to tell if a boy’s name was John or not.  Simple enough deduction, even when he didn’t give his soulname first. 

 

But it did make for an interesting study in human emotions, when those Johns asked for his own name.  “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he’d say, and then watch their faces.  He could always tell what they’d do by their first reaction.

 

Usually his name sparked a flash of disappointment first, as the boy realized his name wasn’t a match.  Those were perhaps the easiest of all, though, because then the boy would shrug and go away, and Sherlock wouldn’t have to pretend not to care he wasn’t disappointed too.

 

If the boy nodded briskly, and didn’t show any other outward sign of emotion, he’d continue the conversation, as if Sherlock had only been giving the time, and not his name.  They’d talk for a few moments, about the weather or a class assignment, and then the conversation would break naturally, and the boy would go off, and that would be that.

 

More often, as the school year dragged on, and Sherlock’s reputation as a bit of an odd duck spread, the questioning boy would look relieved, as if he’d just dodged a particularly uncomfortable bullet.

 

Soon enough, people stopped asking entirely.  After all, _Sherlock_ wasn’t that common a name.  By the time Sherlock had been at school for a year, most people were paired off already with others.

 

Sherlock didn’t mind being alone.  That was fine.  That was good.  That was… better, really.  Whoever John was – _wherever_ John was, Sherlock didn’t need him.  He didn’t.

 

Who needed a soulmate, anyway?

 

*

 

_Soulmates are not necessarily romantic in nature – not at first, not until the first flush of puberty brings with it the prospect of romance.  That’s when most young people start looking for something different in the names on their wrists.  They’re looking for love, for an emotional and physical connection, for someone to help try out all the strange and new feelings and desires._

_Sometimes, the soulname on your wrist is exactly who you need in that moment, who is compatible in every physical way, if not emotional._

_Sometimes, the soulname is the person you need when the physical becomes too much to bear, when the sensory input overloads everything else._

_Not everyone’s soulmate is a romantic paramour – not everyone’s romantic paramour is a soulmate._

_Sometimes, who you love in the moment has nothing to do with a soulmate or soulname at all._

 

*

 

Smooth skin and round curves, wiry hairs that tickled his nose and his cheeks.  Folds and dips and wet places, the sweet and murky scent and taste that he found on his tongue when he explored the dark places between their legs. 

 

 _God_ , John loved girls, loved every moment of being with a girl, loved the feel of her thighs as she pressed them to his ears, as she let her legs fall open before him, loved the way her voice cried out in pleasure as he licked and suckled and ran his fingers lightly across her secret skin. 

 

He loved the way girls quivered under his mouth, flexing and shaking and straining for him, unable to control themselves.  He loved the way they kissed him hungrily afterwards, as if they were desperate for their own flavors.  The way their eyes glassed over with desire and excitement, the way they contracted around his cock when he finally slid inside them, all wet and loose and warm.  They way they buried their noses into his neck, and shuddered as he came, small cries in the back of their throats.

 

He loved them, top to bottom, start to finish.  He loved the moment before it all began, when they looked at him with shy, excited eyes, that moment before their lips touched the first time.  He loved them after, when they pressed naked against him, warm skin under the cool sheet he’d pulled from the bottom of the bed to guard against a chill.

 

Sometimes, afterwards, while their breath was still heavy and hot, the girl would fall asleep.  He loved them all the more in those moments, when they dozed against him.  He’d listen to his heart slow in his chest, the rapid pounding of the sex they’d shared in to a contented hum, and his fingers would inadvertently circle his wrist, thumb rubbing against the name printed on his skin, under the wristband he never removed.

 

“Lucky girl, whoever she is,” the girl would say, if she woke up and saw him.  Sleepy still, contented and comfortable. 

 

“Yeah,” John would say, rubbing the fabric over the name, just to feel the scratch on his skin. 

 

 _Scott_ , it said now. 

 

John didn’t think of himself as gay.  He didn’t think of himself as bi, or straight, or any other permeation of those things.  It wasn’t that he cared so much – it was that he never really thought about it at all, had never really been challenged to think about it, despite the name on his wrist.  There were girls, and then there was that mysterious _Scott_ , who he might meet today, might meet tomorrow, might never meet, come to that, given his track record.

 

John wasn’t sure what he was, except that he liked girls, had always dated girls, had only really ever been attracted to girls. 

 

But the only names that had ever been on his wrist had belonged to boys.

 

Maybe that was the point of Scott – if he ever found him.  It was easier to be friends with girls, somehow, especially once they knew it was a boy’s name on his wrist.  There wasn’t any of the added pressure about soulmates, and whether or not they’d someday wake up and find each other’s names on their wrists, because most everyone their age had the opposite sex on their wrist anyway.  

 

With boys… it was different.  It was strange.  Because John couldn’t look at another boy without wondering, _What does Scott or Sherlock or William look like?  Does he look anything like you?_

 

He didn’t think those things when he spent time with the girls.  And he liked them just fine.  Liked their curves and smiles and soft skin and tiny toes; liked the way they sighed and laughed and the way their hair brushed their shoulders when their ponytails shook back and forth.  He liked the curls at the nape of their neck, the downy hairs on their cheeks.  And he liked the way he was with them, the way he might never be with a girl again, once he met the man who matched the name on his wrist.

 

The girl beside him stretched.  John ran his hand down her shoulder to her wrist, where the letters spelling out a name that wasn’t his stood in sharp relief.

 

Lucky, whoever, wherever he was.

 

“Yeah,” he said finally, just to fill the silence.  “She probably is.”

 

*

 

Victor Trevor wasn’t beautiful, in the classic sense of the word.  His nose was too big and his ears stuck out from the side of his head, and his hair bordered on frizzy more than actual curls.  But he had an easy smile and a graceful way of moving, and when Sherlock tripped over the books he’d spread out on the grass and nearly twisted his ankle, Victor had apologized and laughed and been concerned.  When he reached down to help Sherlock to his feet, the soulname peeked out from under Victor’s shirt.  Just a glimpse, just enough of the lower half of the letters to make a reasonable guess at the rest.

 

And for a moment, Sherlock really did wonder: _Is this him?_   His heart beat a bit faster, he thought he could hear the blood pounding away in his ears, as the world spun and spun and spun.

 

“The name’s Victor Trevor.”  Easily, smiling with his lovely, perfect teeth, as if he wasn’t breaking Sherlock’s heart as he spoke. 

 

Ridiculous notion, really – that one’s heart could be broken just because of a name.  Sherlock held tightly to Victor’s hand, his fingers just grazing the base of his palm, a centimeter below the traitorous name that wasn’t his… not quite his, thought Sherlock suddenly, and his eyes widened with the thought.

 

A quick intake of breath from Victor, and then his voice, a bit lower, almost a whisper: “It’s only polite, you know, to give me your name.”

 

Sherlock looked right at him, and hated himself, and did it anyway.  “Scott.  My name is Scott Holmes.”

 

Victor didn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand – of _Scott’s_ hand.  He sat down opposite him on the grass, the wonder in his eyes matched the longing in Sherlock’s heart.  It would have to be enough. 

 

(It wouldn’t end well; Sherlock knew that much.  At some point, Victor would want to see his wrist, would want confirmation of what he already believed to be true.  And no matter how good it would be  - and oh, it would be good, Sherlock would work to make sure of it – he already knew that Victor was the type of fellow who would want the tradition of falling in love with his soulmate, with finding the name on his wrist and cleaving to that person.  Sherlock could only ever be a dalliance, a passing phase, someone to remember fondly.  But _Scott_ ….

 

Maybe, if Victor’s second name was _John_ , it would last a bit longer.   They could both cling to the hope that they were intended for each other.  Maybe they’d go a year, maybe two, and go home to meet each other’s parents, spend long lazy summer days together before it all blew up in their faces, before Sherlock said something that shattered the illusion.  Before Victor left him in the end.

 

But until then… he could pretend.)

 

*

 

_That’s the trouble with soulnames: it’s a constant reminder that somewhere, there is someone for you.  And when you can’t find that someone, the constant reminder becomes too much for some people to bear.  Some will run as far as they can, looking in every corner and examining every possibility.  They’ll never lose hope, and it’s that hope that will drive them mad in the end, push them into situations they cannot possibly control, send them nearly over the brink of safety and common sense._

_Sometimes, it’s that hope that will turn them into heroes, forge them into people they never dreamed they could be, all in their efforts to be worthy of the name on their wrist, hoping that one more good deed will bring them together._

_And sometimes, it does the opposite: sends the bearer into the darkest places of the mind.  Because if your soulmate cannot love you just as you are – what is the point of wishing they would find you?_

*

 

Paperwork – so much paperwork, reams of it, and it takes John the better part of an hour to get through it all.  Every page begins the same: Name, NI number, Soulname.  Name, NI number, Soulname.  Name, NI number, Soulname.

 

_John Hamish Watson, SP526540R, Shezza._

 

It’s not that the Army cares so much about the name on his wrist.  In fact, in their view, it’s a bonus if John hasn’t met the bloke.  The only thing they’d care about is whether or not there’s the possibility of meeting the man in the heat of battle.  There’s been cases where soldiers on opposite sides of the battle found their names on each other’s wrists – and such things can become a security risk, particularly in wartime.

 

_John Hamish Watson, SP526540R, Shezza._

 

John’s not joining the Army to find his soulmate.  God, no.  But he can’t stand waking up every day, seeing the same people in the same places at the same times, eating the same food and sitting in the same chair, going about his day with everything the same, same, _same_ , while the name on his wrist mocks him for being alone.

 

_John Hamish Watson, SP526540R, Shezza._

 

The Army might be another version of tedium… but at least there’s a high percentage of people like John, with unmatched names on their wrists.  He won’t have to endure the secret smiles when others happen to see their wrists, and think of their match.  He won’t have to deal with watching another patient twist their faces as they try to think of anyone they know with the name _Shezza_ , or grow excited when they remember their cousin Sandra whose soulname happens to be _John_. 

 

_John Hamish Watson, SP526540R, Shezza._

 

It’ll be better, John tells himself, as he hands the sheath of papers to the recruitment officer.  The officer shakes his hand, smiles at him warmly, and at least one of them believes the words he says next.

 

“Welcome to Her Majesty’s Army, son.  You’ve made the right choice.”

 

*

 

“Oi, Shezza, didn’t think we’d see you again so soon,” said the dealer, so smooth and smiley that one could mistake him for being friendly.  “Another vial?”

 

“If it’s the same as what you sold me earlier,” said Sherlock shortly.  He was cold in the wet air of London.  It wasn’t raining, though it might as well have been, for all the moisture in the air.  Sherlock huddled into his hoodie, and just wished the dealer would _hurry_.

 

“Of course, of course, anything for you, baby,” said the dealer.  The thin lights from the street lamps flashed on his teeth.  “Though I hate to be the bearer of bad news—”

 

Sherlock snorted derisively.

 

“The price has gone up fifty quid an ounce.”

 

Sherlock stared at him.  “Fifty – that’s _ridiculous_.”

 

“That’s the price of business, baby.  Popular stuff, that new blend – what’s it called again?  Ah, right.  _Johnny-boy_.  Not much left of it, neither, it’ll be gone before the end of day so I’d best be buying quick if I were you.”

 

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the bills in his pocket.  “Fine.”

 

The transaction was over in seconds; Sherlock left the alley and pulled his hood over his head, keeping his eyes on the ground, walking quickly.  The vial was cool in his fingers.

 

It was a quick walk to the flat on Montague Street.  He switched on the light, not that the yellow light made the dank little flat any more appealing.  It did, however, give him enough light to set up the Bunsen burner, to tap the powder out onto the glass dish above the flame, to measure out the water and give the entire concoction a stir.  Soon enough, the liquid was bubbling.  It only took a few minutes to cool enough to fill the syringe, while he tied the tourniquet around his arm, pulling it taut with his teeth.

 

He stretched out his arm, the pale skin facing up, every blue vein popping up for his ease.  The name on his wrist popped up too – dark against his skin, quiet and unassuming and absolutely not mocking him for his own cowardice.

 

 _John_.  Sherlock had met hundreds of Johns in his lifetime.  None of them with his name on their wrists.  And shouldn’t it have been easy to find him?  After all, there weren’t that many people named _Sherlock_.

 

Sherlock took up the syringe and slid it into his skin, pressed the plunger down with the smooth motion that came of repetition.  Felt the liquid slam through his veins, speed-racing straight for his heart, surging away like adrenaline as the roaring of the train filled his ears, as everything around him faded away, every bit of him lifting up light-headed like the books said it felt, when you found your soulmate, when you found your meaning, when you found the other half that made you complete.

 

Sherlock didn’t need a soulmate.  Sherlock found all the completion he needed in a seven-percent solution, available on any street corner for the right price.

 

 _Johnny-boy_.  Fate had a sense of humor, or at least the drug dealer who’d named the latest cocaine concoction, thought Sherlock, and the last thing he did, before succumbing to the thrill of it, was to delete the definition of _irony_ from his mind.

 

*

 

_Not everyone will meet all their soulmates.  The saying goes: Sometimes a name will fade before a connection is made._

_There are many theories about why this is so.  Sometimes it’s circumstance – a missed bus, an ill-timed phone call, a persistent cough.  These things happen._

_Sometimes it’s personal.  People change rapidly, especially in their formative years, and after all, there’s a reason why soulnames often change immediately following a life-changing event in someone’s life.  The soulname is only an indicator of who is best suited to a particular person at that time._

_Which leads you to the last theory, the one that everyone knows, and no one speaks of.  If the name on your wrist is the person best suited to you at that time – and there’s no one you know with that name – does that mean that there is no one at all for you?_

_Or at least, that you are doomed to be surrounded by strangers who will never quite understand you, and perhaps you will never find your soulname’s match?_

 

*

 

“It’s to do with soulmates,” Mycroft told him, the smirk in his voice if not on his face.  “You wouldn’t understand.”

 

“Piss off,” snapped Sherlock, and Mummy slammed the knife on the counter where she was cutting the vegetables.

 

“Boys,” she said, cautionary, and Mycroft and Sherlock scowled and looked away from each other.  “Now, Mycroft, when are you bringing her home for dinner?”

 

“I thought the next bank holiday – she’s a bit young, doesn’t have nearly as much leave time as I’ve accrued.”

 

“Robbing the cradle, Mycroft?” chided Sherlock, and Mycroft glared at him again.

 

“There’s a lovely young man named John working in the cafeteria, Sherlock, shall I introduce you?”

 

Mummy set the bowl of cherries on the table between them, and in the same movement, smacked the back of Mycroft’s head lightly with her pot-holder.  “One more word, Mycroft Wendell Holmes, and I will greet her at the door with your baby pictures.  The _naked_ ones.”

 

Sherlock smirked as he slid down in the armchair.  “Oh, don’t do _that_ , Mummy – Mycroft couldn’t possibly look as handsome now without clothes as he did thirty-five years ago.  You’ll be giving her false expectations.”

 

Mycroft didn’t even _look_ at him, he was so annoyed.  But there was a blush on his cheeks that even Mummy couldn’t miss, and she slid into the chair at the table next to Mycroft, leaning forward eagerly, ready with her questions and inquisitions, despite Mycroft’s obvious squirming.  Sherlock marked that as a success and went back to shoving the food back and forth on his plate. 

 

“Is she a _nice_ girl, Mycroft?”

 

“Of course.  Though you should know, Mummy, it’s not a romantic pairing.  Anthea and I are simply extremely well-suited for working together.  In the past two weeks, we have successfully written six rather difficult memorandums and averted three international crises.”

 

Mummy’s face fell for just a moment, before she was able to look cheerful again.  “Well.  That’s something then, isn’t it?   Friendship is certainly something important, after all, perhaps more so than romance.”

 

“Please,” snorted Sherlock.  “For Mycroft, preventing international mayhem _is_ romance.”

 

“Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” chided Mummy, and with a last look at Mycroft – one might think she was almost _amused_ at his insistence of chastity and platonic soulnames – she went back to her vegetables.

 

“Mycroft thinks love is a chemical defect,” continued Sherlock.

 

“Well,” said Mycroft, and there was too much simpering delight in his tone for Sherlock not to know what was coming.  “You _would_ know about chemical defects, wouldn’t you, Sherlock?”

 

“Mycroft,” warned Sherlock, glancing back at Mummy.

 

“How much love is too much before it begins to affect one’s sensibilities?  Seven-percent, do you think?”

 

Sherlock shoved at the table, but Mycroft deftly avoided it hitting him in the stomach. The sudden jerking motion did, however, knock the bowl of cherries over and onto the floor.

 

“Oh, _boys_ ,” sighed Mummy, who missed nearly everything.  Or perhaps was deliberately ignoring the barbs.  “Pick those up, before someone slips and breaks an elbow.”

 

It was later, while Mycroft was explaining some bit of political intrigue to their father in detail, that Mummy ran her hand through Sherlock’s hair. 

 

“You mustn’t make fun of Mycroft, you know,” she said.  “I think he’s sometimes jealous of you.”

 

Sherlock looked up sharply.  “ _Jealous_?”

 

“Mmm,” agreed Mummy, and she sat next to her youngest, and took his hands in hers.  Her hands were strong and sure, a bit wet from the washing up, but warm in his cold fingers.  “He’s had such a hard time of it, Mycroft – so many soulnames on his wrist, and so many of them who didn’t care for him a whit beyond what they had to teach him, or what he had to teach them in turn.”

 

Sherlock couldn’t cross his arms over his chest, not with Mummy stroking his hands, but he tried, grimacing.  Mummy smiled softly at him, and squeezed his hands once, tightly, before getting up to clear the mess on the kitchen table.

 

“Sometimes, it’s _not_ meeting your soulmate that is the part that matters.”

 

Sherlock frowned.  “That doesn’t make any sense.  If it doesn’t matter if I meet them or not – why have their name on my wrist?

 

“Oh, it’s just a thought,” said Mummy airily.  “The statistics on those with unmet soulnames aren’t terribly high – and usually it’s only a short-term soulname anyway.  No more than a few months at most.”

 

Mummy’s back was to him now.  Sherlock pulled the sleeve of his shirt up, just enough to see the name on his wrist.

 

 _John_.  Exactly as it had been when it first appeared thirty years before.  Dark black, simple font, solid and dependable.  And despite their plainness, the font and color had never once matched anyone else’s that Sherlock had ever chanced to see.

 

Sherlock stared at the name, listening to the rush of water as Mummy rinsed the last few dishes from dinner.  Mycroft was coming back into the kitchen now, still attempting to explain something to their father, who was nodding along as if he followed along.  Perhaps he did; perhaps he didn’t, but that wasn’t the point.  Mycroft was perfectly happy to explain it as many times as necessary, in detail.  Some lessons bore repetition – not always for the benefit of the student, either.

 

Sherlock let the sleeve slip down over his wrist again, and pressed his hands together in thought.

 

*

 

“They met at work, you know,” said Harry, so miserable she couldn’t even lift the bottle from where she held it, loosely, on the sofa.  “Sodding convention of some sort.  I don’t remember her even being _gone_ that weekend.”

 

“Well,” said John, “you were probably pissed at the time.”

 

“Sod off,” said Harry, without heat.  “I met her.  She was so… put together.  Posh.  She can drink a glass of wine and _stop_.  Like that’s an accomplishment.”

 

“It is for some.”

 

“I should have known when Clara started to wear a watch,” said Harry, morose, and she looked at the bottle for a long time before taking a swig.  “A fucking _watch_ , John.  Isn’t that one of the signs?  Ten ways to tell your soulmate’s name has changed.  Number one: she’s wearing a fucking _watch_.”

 

John frowned, and then realized his hand was instinctively rubbing his own soulname.  He pulled his hand away with a bit of annoyance.  “Number two, your soulname changes.  That’s usually a big indicator, too.”

 

Harry waved the bottle at him.  “Doesn’t always work like that.  Not that you’d know.”

 

John’s jaw went tense.

 

“She’s not even a lesbian,” continued Harry, almost moaning now, and she put her arm over her eyes in defeat.

 

“They’re not always to do with sex, you know,” said John, and Harry laughed.

 

“Of course it’s to do with sex.  What else do you think these little names mean, Johnny?”  Harry lifted up her wrist and shook it at him.  The wine sloshed back and forth, but there wasn’t enough left in the bottle to spill.  “Every soulmate I’ve ever shagged was fucking _fantastic_ in bed.  Hell, even Robert was a fucking awesome kiss, and the only reason he was my soulmate was to convince me I don’t like men.”

 

Harry rested the hand back over her head.  “Anyway, Clara’s moved in with her.  Some townhouse in Kensington Road, all white houses with tiny staircases and gardens in the back.  Been there for six months, you tell me they’re not shagging like bunnies.”

 

“I’m just saying—”

 

“Oh, I know what you’re saying.  Just because _you_ don’t want to shag your soulmate doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t.  Or wait – maybe Sherlock is a girl’s name, after all.”

 

John went cold.  “You…you fucking _bitch_.  You looked at my wrist?”

 

Harry moved her hands and sat up on the couch.  Her eyes were bloodshot, but incredulous all the same.  “Johnny.  You got pissed last night and passed out on the floor.  I had to watch to make sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit.  Yeah, I looked at your wrist – I couldn’t bloody well avoid it, could I?  Not as though _you_ wear a watch.”

 

John clenched his hands together.  “You know I’m not gay.”

 

“Neither is Clara’s soulmate, doesn’t seem to stop them,” snapped Harry.  “Anyway, just because you’ve never actually dated a bloke doesn’t mean you’re not gay.  So who is he?  Some doctor in rehab?  Another patient?  Or – oh, Christ, did you leave him behind in Afghanistan?  Is _that_ what all this moping is about, you finally found a fucking soulmate and you get shot and shipped back home before you can _do_ something about it?  Is your depression just sexual frustration?”

 

“Don’t confuse me for you,” said John, coolly angry, and he left the room before he did something he’d regret, like rip the bottle out of his sister’s hands and smash her over the head with it.

 

Or drink whatever she’d left in it.  He wasn’t entirely sure which would be worse.

 

The harsh light of the bathroom hurt his eyes.  Perhaps the hangover wasn’t as gone as he’d thought.  He stared into the mirror at his own disheveled reflection.  His hair was well past regulation length; he hadn’t shaved in days, his eyes were still bloodshot and his clothes….

 

Carefully, meticulously, he stripped down to nothing and stepped into the shower.  The water was cold as first, but somehow, it felt fine, serving to wake him up and knock the remaining hangover away.  He let the water run cold over his face until his eyes were no longer hot and stinging, and then turned up the temperature as high as it would go.  By the time he was out, the air was filled with steam, and he had to wipe the condensation off the mirror in order to shave properly.

 

He dressed, listening for Harry the entire time.  The rest of the flat was silent, though.  She might have fallen asleep on the sofa.  He doubted it.

 

Shirt, pants, trousers, socks, cane, coat.  He was about to leave when he saw the watch sitting on the dresser, and he reached for it without hesitation, slipping it on over his wrist, hiding the name that had been on his skin for the last five years, in solid black, typeset-letters.

 

 _Sherlock_.

 

Not that it mattered.  He didn’t know the bloke, and given his track record, wasn’t going to meet him anytime soon, if ever.  The name would change before too long; another missed connection.  John was good at those.  He’d been doing them all his life.  Stupid to think he might have a chance to meet someone… connect with someone… actually have a _purpose_ to life again….

 

Sitting around Harry’s flat getting so drunk he forgot to go home – _that_ was stupid.  John picked up the cane and headed out.  He’d get a haircut on the way home.  Walk through the park, maybe.  Get a coffee.

 

And try to forget about the name on his wrist.

 

*

 

 _John Watson_ , says Mike, and Sherlock knows immediately.

 

And when Sherlock says his name, he sees recognition on John’s face, and it doesn’t matter if John’s wearing a watch.  He knows the name written underneath it already.

 

*

 

_All things end.  No matter how good a soul connection is, there’s always a point at which two people are no longer compatible.  It’s usually a gradual process; a name will fade into a dark smudge, before revealing a new name.  This can take anywhere from a day to a month – sometimes as long as six weeks, but usually no longer._

_When a soulmate dies, however, the process is different.  The name on the surviving soulmate’s wrist will disappear immediately, completely.  There’s no telltale smudge, no residue of color.  It’s simply gone, as if the person named had never existed._

_Such a small, physical thing, and while medical studies have been done to prove that the disappearance of a soulname causes little to no chemical imbalance in its bearer, there is nonetheless a profound depression that settles over them.  This depression takes all the usual forms of grief, but most notable are the periods of bargaining and disbelief.  It’s only when a new name appears that the mourner moves on to acceptance, and is able to live again._

 

*

 

John didn’t take off the watch.  Not once, not ever, not for anything.  He slept with it, he bathed with it, he did the washing up and walked through rainstorms with it.  It spun on his wrist, which had grown thinner over the weeks, until he was able to tighten it a bit. 

 

He didn’t take it off.  Taking it off would mean being able to see his wrist.  Taking it off would be seeing the smooth, clean, unblemished flesh.

 

Or seeing another name in Sherlock’s place.

 

John wasn’t sure what would be worse.

 

*

 

“Who was your first soulmate?” asked John in the dark.

 

Sherlock shifted on the bed to face him.  John was on his side, facing him with eyes closed.  He might have been asleep, but he’d definitely spoken. 

 

“You’ll laugh,” said Sherlock carefully.

 

“I won’t,” promised John.

 

“You were,” said Sherlock, and John’s eyes sprang open. 

 

“But…that’s not possible.  No one has just _one_ soulmate.  You’re my fourth, and soulnames are always matched sets, you know that.  You couldn’t have been mine if I wasn’t yours.”

 

Sherlock’s stomach twisted a bit.  “It’s true.  My first soulname was John.” _First and only_ , he thought, but didn’t say.

 

John smiled, but to his credit, did not laugh.  “Wouldn’t have been me, though.   I had three before I met you.”  John’s voice was distant, as if he was remembering each of them in turn.  “William – he was while I was in school.  And there was a Scott for a while, too, right before I joined up.”

 

It was easy to imagine them.  William, bright red hair and a penchant for trouble.  He’d have been the one to teach John that dangerous streak.  For Scott, Sherlock imagined some tall, muscular, powerful man, with a thousand-watt grin and an easy sense of humor.  Clever, but not a genius, friendly and formidable in a way that John would have admired enough to follow into the Army. 

 

“What… what was he like?”

 

John became guarded.  “Who?”

 

“Your soulmate. Any of them.  The first one, William.”  Sherlock didn’t want to hear about the others, not particularly.

 

“No idea, never met him.  Some mix-up with schools or something, I can’t remember.”

 

Sherlock turned his face into his pillow; it was dark, so John wasn’t likely to see the motion, only hear it.  All the same, it wasn’t worth the risk that John might see the relief on his face.  The image of Scott, bronzed and buxom, went spiraling down the drain, just a figment of imagination.  “Not me, then.  I wasn’t out of nappies until you were at uni.”

 

John laughed then, and playfully cuffed him about the ear.  Sherlock grinned into the pillow, pleased.

 

“I’m not that much older than you, you git.  And I wouldn’t have minded if it’d been you – I always wanted a younger brother.”

 

“If that’s all I am, then I have to question your morals, John.”

 

“Oi, you!”

 

They tousled a bit, but it wasn’t much of a fight.  And anyway, John was an excellent shot and able to brave two dozen Taliban in an unknown land, but Sherlock was better at hand-to-hand and had the certificate on the wall to prove it.  When it was over, Sherlock lay atop John, his chin resting on John’s sternum, despite John’s protests.

 

“Your chin is pointy, get it off.”

 

 “Why do you suppose we didn’t meet then?” he mused.  “When we were young.”

 

“We weren’t _meant_ to, you eejit, that’s why we had different names on our wrists.  Now get off me before you poke a hole straight through my chest with your bloody chin.”

 

He could tell John then.  Right out and say it.  _John, my soulname has never changed.  But I have.  So many times.  Three at least.  Let me tell you what they called me._

Instead:

 

 “I don’t think Fate knows what she’s doing,” said Sherlock, and John successfully managed to throw him off before rolling atop him.

 

John shook his head, smiling.  “Sherlock Holmes, romantic git. Ought to have known you’d want to have been one of those one-namers.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.  You seduced me, as I recall.”

 

“I did not.  You’re the one who kissed me in the hall downstairs.”

 

“You killed a cabbie, John, what do you call that if not seduction?”

 

“Apart from illegal, dangerous, a damn good shot, and reckless?  The best thing I’ve ever done in my life, that’s what I’d call it.”

 

“Exactly,” said Sherlock, and kissed him.

 

*

 

_Once the first soulname appears on your wrist, you’ll very seldom be without one.  The longest period anyone has been without a soulname in recorded history was a man by the name of Alexander Selcraig, widely accounted to be the inspiration for Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe.  Selcraig lived alone for four years on a deserted island, and reported that his wrist remained clear the entire time.  In fact, the only reason he knew his rescue was imminent was because of the name that appeared a day before the ship arrived – the name of the ship’s captain._

_In 1 out of a thousand cases, a person will die before a soulname appears.  It’s said they die of a broken heart.  It might even be true._

 

*

 

Every morning, John woke up and stared at the ceiling without moving, without looking to see the time, without thinking of anything, really.  He watched the way the light in the room went from black to grey to white as the sun rose, as the world around him began its day.

 

Eventually, he sat up, got out of bed, had a piss, washed off his face.  He dressed, in whatever shirt and trousers were closest to hand, a jumper if it was cold.  He made tea and toast, collected the newspaper from the stoop.  The tea would go down the drain, the toast would get cold and shrivel up on itself, the newspaper would be added to the pile by the rubbish bin. 

 

John went to work, saw his patients, filled out the forms, nodded and spoke and asked the correct questions, made notations on charts.  He unwrapped his lunch for the day – an apple, or a store-bought sandwich, or a bag of crisps, and ignored it while he pretended to do the crossword.  Sometimes, for variety, he would ignore the crossword while he pretended to eat the lunch.

 

After work, he walked home, greeted Mrs Hudson, turned on the telly for the noise, turned it off again because the canned laugh track grated on his nerves.  He made dinner, ate a bite or two, put the rest in the fridge with the other ignored meals, and stared at the walls, watching the daylight fade into strange diluted artificial light of night. 

 

He went to bed.  And waited, and waited, and waited.  Waited for his depression to break, waited for the courage to remove the wristwatch that seemed to be permanently attached to his wrist, waited for someone to come into his life whose name made taking the blasted thing off actually _worth_ the pain it would simultaneously cause.

 

It wasn’t until he stepped outside the flat and felt the shockingly cold wind on his face that he woke up from his fog, and blinked as the children came down the pavement, pushing the straw man in their stolen shopping cart. 

 

“Penny for the guy!  Penny for the guy!”

 

John stared at them for a moment; their faces were bright and cheerful, their cheeks red with the cold of early November.  The children looked at him, expectant and eager.

 

“Oh, come on, don’t be like the rest,” they chided, and John fumbled in his pockets for a moment, before handing over the change he found there.  They were off, with shouted thanks, continuing their march around the block.  John stood still on the pavement, looking in amazement at the grey November sky, and the people with grey November coats and grey November scarves around their necks.

 

November.  _November_.  How the _hell_ had it become November? 

 

John walked to work, saw the smiling tourists, the scowling City workers, Londoners out for the day, carrying shopping and small children, teenage girls giggling over a mate’s newly-named wrist.   He thought of his own wrist, chafing under the watch he still wore – and when his heart began to pound, when he felt the fog start to creep back in, fought to push it back, kept his breathing steady, kept his feet walking ahead.

 

“Oh, there you are, John,” said the new nurse when he arrived at work.  John blinked at her, still a bit lost in his own head, trying to remember her name.  “Thought you’d been hit by a lorry – Mrs Markum is here a bit early, would you see to her?  She does like you best.”

 

She was friendly and pretty and had a wicked sense of humor, she remembered every patient’s name and the names of their children and pets and spouses.  And she was the only one of the staff who didn’t still look at him with sympathy in their eyes, didn’t glance at his watch and then up to his face, the worry evident in the way they pursed their lips and said nothing.

 

 _Mary_ , that was it.  The rest of them were waiting for him to remove the watch, come to terms with Sherlock’s death, and look for the next name to appear.  Not Mary.  She seemed content to let him grieve at his own pace, and in the meantime, kept him in the world as much as he needed.

 

“John?” prompted Mary gently.  “Mrs Markum?”

 

“Oh, yes.  Yes, I just need—”  He motioned to the staff room, and she waved him off, the smile still open and friendly. 

 

He hung up his coat in his locker.  The watch on his wrist caught the light, glinting a bit.  John stared at it for a moment, breathing in deeply, and then, before he could change his mind, went to wash his hands in the sink by the kitchenette. 

 

Five months.  There would be a name, he was sure of it.  And maybe… maybe it was time.  John was suddenly _tired_ of living in a fog, tired of having the world pass him by without his notice.  Tired of missing months at a time because he had no anchor or reason to notice the passing of the seasons. 

 

Maybe it would belong to the nurse with the wicked sense of humor.  Mary.  That wouldn’t be so bad.  The best thing for him, if he couldn’t have Sherlock – the only person John could think of whose name he’d want on his wrist now.  John could fall into her, so easily, so comfortably.  It wouldn’t be Sherlock, but it would be good.

 

Carefully, under the stream of lukewarm water, he removed the watch, feeling the way the metal slowly peeled away from his skin, leaving it raw and tender and pale.  John imagined it ripping off a layer, leaving his bones and muscles exposed, but instead all he saw was the smooth white of it, the fine hairs long since rubbed away.

 

And the letters, forming a name, still solid and dark on the inside of his wrist.

 

John stared at the name.  It took a long time to process.

 

And then he began to laugh – a bitter, wry, completely unamused laugh.

 

“Oh, that _bastard_.”

 

The door to the staff room opened.  “John, are you all right?” called Mary, her voice worried, and John shut off the water and dried his hands on a paper towel, careful not to rub the skin on his wrist raw.

 

“Fine,” said John, turning around.  Mary gave him a cautious smile – as if his sudden return to life was more alarming than his departure from it – and gave him a quick nod.

 

“Mrs Markum is in Exam Room Two.”

 

“Right, thank you, Mary,” said John. 

 

He glanced at his wrist again, and shook his head.  “Oh, you _bastard_ ,” he repeated, equally delighted and annoyed as hell, before he pulled down his shirtsleeves over the name still printed on his wrist, and went to work.

 

*

 

John was doing the washing up.  Sherlock, standing in the hall just outside 221B, where it was at least a bit warmer than it was outside.  His ears and nose were still cold, but inside the flat, it would be warm.  John would have looked out the window to the cold December day, and seen the mix of rain and sleet and snow, and he would have lit a fire.  Sherlock could smell the telltale aroma of the gas fire already lit in the fireplace, mixed with the beef and onions and rich gravy-scent of the stew John would have made for supper, something with plenty of flavor and nutrition, something perfect to warm a body from the tips of his toes to the top of his head.  Sherlock couldn’t hear the snap and crackle of the fire, but he could hear the water in the pipes, the clinking of the dishes and silverware knocking together, the sound of John talking with Mrs Hudson, their voices melding together in something warm and soft. 

 

It was exactly what Sherlock wanted, just then, and he longed not to join them, exactly, but – already be there, part of it, scoffing lightly from his corner but secretly loving every moment.  He reached for the doorknob to open the door, and went still, listening.

 

Music on the radio, John half singing along, laughter from Mrs Hudson as she chided him for singing the wrong words.  John replying, a conversation back and forth.  There was joy in the flat, and Sherlock wasn’t part of it.  Didn’t belong in it.  Had given up his right to be there, with John, when he’d stepped off the roof of St Bart’s and made John watch.

 

Sherlock stared at the name still visible on his wrist, his hand still poised to turn the doorknob.  He couldn’t simply walk in and be welcomed – not now.  Perhaps not ever.  His very entrance would change the scope of things in a way that his absence clearly had not.

 

Slowly, he raised his hand to knock on the door instead.

 

And then the water shut off abruptly, and Sherlock heard John bellow.

 

“Oi, you overgrown git, stop prevaricating and come inside!  Your dinner’s getting cold.”

 

Sherlock blinked, unable to quite process the command, and then slowly pushed open the door. 

 

The flat was warm, brightly light and exactly the same.  His violin on its stand near the window; John’s laptop open on the table.  Their chairs, angled toward each other, and Billy the skull grinning at him from the mantle. 

 

And John – who was still in the kitchen, just around the corner.  The water had started up again, and John was back to the washing up, the flat filling with familiar sounds of dishes running against each other as he worked.  The only person Sherlock saw was Mrs Hudson, who came around the corner and broke into a smile. 

 

“Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” she said, and before he could say a word, she’d stepped up to give him a hug.  Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, at first, and by the time he had decided to hug her in return, she’d already stepped back, her face still shining, and gave him a slap on the cheek.

 

“That’s for lying,” she scolded.  “ _Honestly_ , Sherlock.  What were you thinking?  I’m half a mind to throw you out on your ear.”

 

“Let him eat his dinner first,” called John from the kitchen.

 

Mrs Hudson eyed Sherlock’s ribcage.  “Several dinners, I should think – didn’t you _eat_ while you were away, Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“Some,” said Sherlock, surprised how scratchy his voice sounded.

 

“ _None_ , you mean.  John, I’m going to fetch those biscuits after all, won’t be a tick.”

 

“Take as many ticks as you like, Mrs Hudson,” called John.

 

Mrs Hudson gave Sherlock’s arm a squeeze before she slipped out the door.

 

Sherlock couldn’t move.  He could hear John at the sink, the music playing on the radio, the familiar lights and the rich scent of dinner.  And none of it was wrong, exactly – it was all just as he’d pictured it.  Perfect and easy and simple, and waiting for him.

 

The water shut off; John’s footsteps crossed the kitchen.  He’d be taking a towel now, to dry his hands.  The metallic sound of a lid, a scrape of a spoon at the bottom of a pot, the rush of liquid and plop of something more substantial: John, filling a bowl with the beef stew.

 

Sherlock’s stomach rumbled.

 

“Well, come on, then,” called John.  “Before it turns to ice.”

 

Sherlock moved his feet, turned the corner, and saw John just as he put the bowl of stew on the tiny kitchen table, just where the microscope had once sat.  John looked – so much the same.  His hair neatly combed, his terrible trousers clean and pressed, wearing a perfectly atrocious jumper that Sherlock half thought John chose simply to prove a point.

 

_You weren’t here.  I’m wearing terrible clothes.  So there._

 

It was when Sherlock looked at John’s face that he caught his breath.  John looked steadily back at him, his eyes dark pools that were neither accusatory or surprised, accepting or expected.  They were simply… John, his arms crossed, waiting for Sherlock to make the first move.

 

Sherlock was at a loss of what to say, and went for the first thing in his head.

 

“You moved my microscope.”

 

“You weren’t here to complain,” said John evenly, and waited while Sherlock sat down at the table.  The beef stew looked delicious – a thick brown broth surrounding glistening carrots and onions, ladled over mashed potatoes.  “Hurry up and eat, I can’t yell at you if you’re starving.”

 

The knot in his throat was too big to swallow around.  “John,” said Sherlock, unable to say more, and John began to look distinctly uncomfortable.  “There’s something I never explained—”

 

“Yeah, well, eat first,” said John, more a mumble than anything else, and he was about to turn away when Sherlock reached out and took him by the wrist, his fingers closing over the name written there.

 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he said in a rush.  “That’s the whole of it.  My name.”

 

John went still.  So still.  So very still, that it was only the feel of his pulse that let Sherlock know he hadn’t died from shock.

 

“I know,” said John finally.  “I think I always knew.  The first name on my wrist, when I was five, was _Sherlock_.”  He turned to look at Sherlock.  “You.  It was always you.  Now eat your soup, so I can yell at you after.”

 

*

 

_You aren’t born with a soulname on your wrist.  It’s only when you’re older, when you’ve learned to walk and talk, when you’ve learned the difference between friends and acquaintances, when you’ve learned the difference between alone  and lonely, that you wake up one day with a name on your wrist._

_Soulmates are ephemeral.  No one knows if they change you, or if you change them, or maybe you both change each other.  But the person whose name is on your wrist is the person who will best understand what you need just then, even if they can’t always provide it._

_That’s the part that most people don’t understand.  They think a soulmate is your other half, the person who is going to complete you. They think when they find their soulmate, that everything will be easy, that the world will suddenly settle down around them, that the path ahead will be clear and simple, without obstruction or confusion._

_That’s not exactly true.  A soulmate can’t make life run smooth.  They’re just the one who is going to hold tightest during the tricky bits._

 

*

 

“John,” said Sherlock, “are you going to shout when I’m done with the beef stew?”

 

“I was planning to, yes.”  


“Best to let go of my hand, then, so I can eat it.”

 

John pushed Sherlock’s sleeve back from his wrist.  His name was there, in the same solid, dependable font it had been, the entire time they’d known each other, and all the years when they’d only wondered.

 

And then he pulled Sherlock out of the chair, and toward the bedroom.  “I’ve got a better idea.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened.  “But – you’re angry.”

 

“It’ll keep,” John assured him, and slammed the bedroom door behind them.

 

 


End file.
